The gym echoed with the heavy rhythm of spikes and squeaking sneakers. It was another national training camp, and as usual, Komori Motoya had slipped into the background. Sakusa was at the center of attention, praised for his precision, coaches hovering, teammates asking questions. Komori clapped, cheered, made himself part of the noise, but inside, he felt the same quiet ache—he was good, but never the one. Always someone’s cousin, someone’s sidekick.

Later, when the crowd had thinned, he lingered in the corner of the gym, practicing quiet passes with a stray ball. His movements were fluid, sharp—no less skilled than anyone else’s, but no one was watching. Or so he thought.

“Your receives,” a voice cut in softly. He turned to see you, leaning by the doorway, eyes focused only on him. “They’re… amazing. You make it look so easy.”

For a beat, Komori just blinked, caught off guard. Compliments usually belonged to Kiyoomi, not him. He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Eh? You’re not just saying that because the cousin gene forced you to, right?”

You shook your head, smiling. “No. I mean it. I like your style. You see the whole court differently.”

Something unspoken flickered across his face, a rare seriousness in his usually lighthearted features. For once, he wasn’t Sakusa’s cousin, wasn’t background noise—he was just Komori Motoya, and someone was actually looking at him.

“…Weird,” he muttered, though his grin softened into something real. “But I think I could get used to you saying stuff like that.”